Goodbye the Night
by Passionworks
Summary: The sun is the witness to the world; the witness of all tribulation and bliss. Despite the degraded name upon him, the sun spirit wishes for goodness, and it is concieved from the most unusual source. Oneshot rated for imagery and minor sexual content.


**Author's Note: I realize that this story and its paragraphs are incredibly lengthy. There is a reason for this: I am depicting contrast. The first and last parts are short and simplistic, and the middle is very detailed and full of imagery. I am showing my readers that the evils are prominent inside of Azula; so the middle, where she appears, is the longest part. The goodness in the world is rather short-lived, and this is represented through the sun spirit. I hope this clears a few things and I wish that the length does not scare the readers.**

Goodbye the Night

By: Passionworks

The sun was splitting the seams of the horizon. The round sphere of heat was anxious, not necessarily patient. Its fury was close to its peak, being that the winter solstice was just a week or so away. The moon would reign longest on that day and the darkness, ominous and foreboding as it was on a simple standpoint, would lead to a weakened Fire Nation. Yes, the moon was a charming and tender soul, but the sun was not one to always be so kind. The sun liked to burn skin, liked to see volcanoes erupt at the feet of the earth. His passion, however, was largely drawn from his enlightened firebenders. These people were his children, his brothers and sisters. He had endowed them with their gift of bending the once uncontrollable flame. He had taught them to cradle it in their hands like a child and to let it sprout like flowers in an open field.

But something had changed his people. One by the name of Sozin created a war and a lust for an honorary title, as if _Firelord_ was not enough for him. _Dragon,_ he called it, after the creatures he hunted down for glory. The people still bowed and prayed to the sun, humbly asking for his spiritual wisdom. This was respect, nonetheless. He found it necessary to conform to his people's beliefs because, perhaps, the long since dead Firelord was correct. After all, where there was life there was water. So, was it proper to say that where there was death there was fire? These were natural, earthly opposites, and the connections fit well with the Fire Nation's aspirations of war.

But then again, the only reason the war started was because the sun's nation wished to spread their wealth and goodwill with the rest of the world. In other words, this was the spread of destruction, eradication, annihilation, among other synonymous terms. The sun spirit, in his position in the daily routines of balance, knew that this was wrong, but remained loyal to his people. His devotion was constant, minus, of course, the hours he would spend below the horizon.

But morning was upon him at last. The hour was late, but right on schedule as far as he was concerned. The sun spirit, though somewhat tired after a bit of slumber, was an artsy fellow, as well as a generous source of light. With invisible, but skillfully crafted hands, he dipped a steady brush into a spectrum of magnificent watercolors. As he ripped himself from the horizon line, he began to splatter his paints almost sporadically. A variety of hues poured from his brush and spread to the heavens. The red, gold, pink, and blue swirled together from his palette into one unit, conceiving the transparency for light to shine through in his work. Eying the masterpiece, he noted no flaws and was quite satisfied with himself, not in an egotistical way, of course, but rather, of awe. His lips parted to reveal a very wide grin, his teeth sparkling in the midst of wet paint. The heat of his unspoiled breath dried them in an instant.

His eyes parted from the sky to take in the morning air. The grass and other existing plants were heavy with the dew and water from a previous night's rainfall. The green luster was more pale and dull than usual; a signal of winter's birth, but this did not ever deter him from the earth's majesty. The soil was still fertile despite the chill in the atmosphere; life was an abundant resource in the Fire Nation. No weather change or falsified piece of history could take that away.

But in all reality, history itself was looking quite bright. The war that had spread like a pandemic had been wiped out around five years ago. Much of that hostility was gone, the land in the Earth Kingdom began to ripen once again, and the Air Temples were reappearing; on a very slight note of course.

Yes, the sun did see it all. The lands of all the nations benefited from his presence, but they lived as if divided from him. Though of course, he was somewhat biased on the others. The burning of delicate, sensitive skin brought a pleasurable laugh to him, a giggle too. It seemed cruel but honestly, he was not at all perfect. He, like Yue the moon spirit, was entirely human. Creation had deemed humanity imperfect biblically; he had tasted it too. He was realistically just a _representation _of human connection to the sun.

It almost shamed him to consider the flaws of his race, his firebenders. Their decisions had led to the imbalance that had devastated the world. He was not pleased to have that degrade his name, but it was what it was; nothing could erase that.

Was it safe to say that his people deserved punishment? Was it allowable, plausible?

_Indeed it was…_

And one would suffer greatly. Not at his hands, of course, but his eyes were open and clear.

_He did see it all; this was no exception…_

………

The world was black, so very black. She was surrounded by this darkness; it held no light at all. There were no windows, no openings. She imagined it like being stuck inside the stomach of a beast: no way out. She was in chains, arms raised above her head. Her movements were basic here, barely enough to stretch out the jumps in her legs. She was scarcely clothed; her thin layers had been torn in her rage. She gave no mind to this due to the fact that her cell was stuffed with the unbearable heat of the usual day in the Fire Nation. The only annoyance came with exposure. Yes, her body was sexually enticing, a setback rather than a pleasure. Prison life was predominantly _male-oriented_; she suffered a bit, being a woman. Men's eyes found themselves roaming to her unsheathed breasts, but a distasteful look of realization from the girl kept them at bay. Many would wiggle their brows, wishing to get just a piece of her, but the acknowledgement of the possibility of this occurring was minimal. Touching her was not an option; she still was a firebender, a prodigy, nonetheless. Her fire was still blue and dangerous; her cold demeanor was the main reason for that. She was quite hateful by nature: her father, an influence some would say was too prominent.

Princess Azula was by all means, heartless and cruel. She had no need for love, no tolerance for affection, and no desire to be cured. She stood her ground as a perfect, unblemished human being. It added a number of possibilities to her mental capabilities: narcissism clouded her judgment and redemption was too late, more of a hopeless cause on all fronts of the system. Her brother, the steady and easygoing Firelord, had ceased his efforts. He had no time to deal with her, no time to play into her ridiculous games. She was a tease to him, almost like a taunting, _persistent _child. Mai, his lawfully wedded wife, had no apparent appreciation for the princess at all. The woman spent much of her years making babies for the throne, caring for them in ways only she cared to understand. The acrobat was a different story; she visited on occasion, but the bonding between the two was in all words, distant; a rupture in the foundation of Ty Lee's _bubbly_ personality. Azula had had enough of this kindness and sent the girl away. Outwardly, the pinky, infantile thing was upset over the incident, but the princess was a dubbed "people person" and quickly spotted the inner façade that was being hidden from view. Her gold eyes detected relief: more time to spend with those feminine warriors with the disgusting green dresses, perhaps?

But victory was not even a short term for her existence. She had failed. And for the first time in her life, she realized defeat in a realistic way. When the situation demanded it long ago, she did back out, and plots in her head provided backup and a sense of security. Those benefits, along with many other riches, were long gone, five years gone, in fact. On the day of the comet, she had faltered in judgment. At the feet of her brother and a simpleton Water Tribe girl, she lost all ability to control her feral mind, her madness. She screeched and bellowed, her terribly cut hair flailing listlessly on her head. With a point of a crooked finger, the newly crowned Firelord had her thrown into a shallow grave and deemed her _unfit_ for everyday living. A number of solutions were handed to her like food in a tray. The food was not great, the medical decisions the same. All were outlandish –mold and flies were usual company at a meal –and unreachable –rare diseases, common theories. This lifestyle was confusing to the once faultless princess, who was still used to a rigid, disciplined way of life. Protest was unthinkable; words usually fell on deaf ears. The guards, for the most part, ignored her, perhaps too occupied with the fact that some among their ranks were _female._ Azula felt highly uncomfortable around women of higher esteem than her. Though she was a princess, the daughter of Ozai, it was as if her title was nonexistent, stripped from her more or less.

Activity was quite mundane, the usual schedule. The princess would sit much of the day and stare at the wall, trapped in some deep, perplexing thought that held no exact answer to anything. It was admitted through harsh persuasion that the girl's mind was full of static, a lost signal at best. Much of it was a scattered black and white: no pattern to bounce off of. Though she stood proud physically, her mental wounds were crumbling pieces of stone with no possibility of repair. It was not known if this depressed her; she kept the full-scale truths to herself. It was plainly obvious, however, that something nit-picked and agitated her, but the doctors could give no insight to her troubles, one of the main reasons they had given up on her. For hours on end, questions would be asked, only to be met by silence and an occasional blank, sleep-deprived stare. Once in a while, she would mumble something, usually nonsense, by reports of the medical professionals. She would often repeat them once spilled from her lips, as if she was rewinding a tape, playing it over and over in her head. For the most part, she was a hopeless cause on the basis of sanity. It too was a distant memory that she probably _never had_ to begin with.

On rare occasions, she was allowed to enter the outside world. Prison recess was highly monitored, guards bordering the entire perimeter. The girl would be surrounded by faces, none at all recognizable, but she would scream and cower. Her body would contort compulsively as if taken over by a nervous seizure and her jagged fingernails would send blood pouring out of her pale, emaciated flesh. It was assumed that light affected her sense of judgment and logical reason, the sun a little too bright in her eyes. Gripped by armored men, she would be dragged back to her cell to meet the darkness, the _night_, once again. The black cell sang and called to her, whispered soothing lullabies while nibbling at her ear. And sometimes she would sleep, but dreams, like the bridge between the Natural World and the Spirit World, would blur into nightmares that came with no happy endings of assurance. In other words, she would be reminded of the fact that she had no maternal figure to take it all away from her forever. So, they were permanently glued to her mind with no means of a safe and reliable exit from her system. And her brain was a complex organ, but so _tattered_ it was by images better left behind. Thought process found itself choking on all those snapshots like a blockage in the intestine, like air into the lungs.

_Why think? Why wonder?_

_Why try?_

Suicide was her greatest companion. She silently prayed for it each and every night while she shivered in her single-layered sheet. In her loneliness, she spent much of her spare time searching for a useful weapon, but to no avail. No doable possibilities ever came to her: her past life wanted a symbolic and complex act of death. She desired it still; it was something she held like a doll in a little girl's arms. She admitted to disregarding toys as a child; there was no need for friendships to develop with inanimate objects. These materialistic things had no feelings, no words, no wisdom. This led to the fact that none of her childhood playthings had a single scratch at all. Their _nonjudgmental_ nature provided no compliments or threats; the silence was unbearable. She looked up to her father for the words that the toys could not ever provide. This simple choice was damning; it _ruined_ any sliver of child in her. It was perhaps considered the initial reason for her breakdown. She realized too late, of course; she had no way of reversing her decisions. It was not as if people were willing to listen to the dispossessed princess. So, she commonly found herself sleeping with death on most nights; she fondled with it and almost stepped on it once or twice.

The princess was in an angered mood when the warden stepped into her cell. His visit was unannounced and bothersome to someone commonly used to hearing a _decent knock_ before an entry, as she was. She snarled at the wrinkled, middle-aged man in disapproval. The princess had a way with taming others with her disgust, but the warden was unfazed. She had known of her brother's escape from this very place quite a many years ago, and it seemed fit to say that he had gotten over the affair. His eyes never left her as he spoke. In his dominating, but scratchy tone of voice, he stoically warned her that her presence was needed elsewhere. A couple of his higher ranked males unlocked her chains and wrapped their muscular arms around hers. She disliked their cold touch, mainly unsatisfied by their closeness to her breasts. It was odd to think that there was a time in her life where she would benefit through sex, not _intercourse_ itself, but seductive tactics. She wore no revealing clothes, but her physical gifts were enough to pull something off. She had an obscure way of displaying her erotic nature; she made it into a game, a game almost childlike in the direction of which it was played out. _Get close, close enough to touch. But never bite, never lead them astray._ She used her alluring charm like an animal in heat; she waited for the right moment to get under the skin of her foes, allowing them to reveal themselves _first_. It was a discourteous way to exist, but at least it had proved incredibly effective, if only for a little while.

From behind her, she heard the door to her cell snap shut. She recalled that it was much louder than the usual low-pitched muffle. The princess reduced it to outdoor exposure, the side of the cell that she had never stepped on to in quite some time. Her eyes met a depthless red. It was neither light _nor_ dark, but dry and monotonous, no less. It was a quite a single-layered hue with no real significance beyond Fire Nation loyalty and origin. She found in an instant that it heated her passion for anger and much needed revenge. It enriched her with knowledge of where she herself started. From rumors riddled with _flavorful_ deceptions, she had garnered some understanding that the Avatar had indeed won the war and her father was in a prison cell rotting away just as she was. But despite all of the setbacks put upon her so harshly, she felt a dutiful pang of obligation to her country: its last hope for control and redemption as a nation run on hell. But something must have broken long ago, snapped like a twig, untwisted like a lonely screw. She did not even make an attempt to escape. Curiosity was the best way to describe this, undoubtedly so, as if appetite ceased to call her to action.

Azula's feet shuffled on the floor, one would consider the motion almost sloppily done, like an infant taking its first steps. The guards growled in annoyance when she lost her footing. For the most part, the men detested having to play the part of caretakers or guides to her unsteady gait. This was an enormous embarrassment to the princess, not because she detested assistance –she relied heavily on others in her _humble_ takeover of Ba Sing Se and the whole Earth Kingdom –but rather, her inability to maintain certain composure. Her struggles with the most simplistic of tasks resonated weakness from her being, which was indeed a _sin_ in her father's eyes, and it did not give her that air of authority that she had lavished on and lapped up all her life. She understood well that her father was far worse off than she was; he had lost his connection to the sun in some newly discovered, unknown way, but she had his chilling presence inside of her heart, in her blood, genes, the very fabric of her being. He was her muse, the thing that pushed her into action, pushed her into the _thrill_ of conquer and victory. It was not wrong at all to say that the girl _blamed him_ for her downfall, but loyalty kept her alive in ways only she cared to explain. When her voice was heard inside of her cell, it was often noted that she would speak unconsciously to an imaginary someone she dubbed: _"father,"_ more nonsense, the typical description. She dismissed their misunderstandings early on; these people were, more or less, _common slobs,_ just simple operators of a prison: not a noble job anymore –the war was over. A multitude of the penitentiaries were closed down at the climax of the fighting, too many prisoners were freed for a number of them to continue running. None of it had affected her significantly, _barely grazed_ her, really. Though it did hurt a little, lack of inclusion, she took it well enough. She did not complain when the meal rations were reduced due to the lessoning taxpayer money. She did not shutter when many high ranked officials of the jailhouse lost their jobs. And if she _did_ feel something, it went largely unnoticed.

They continued their march at a quick pace, the warden's pompous attitude against tardiness leading the way. Azula was not one to question anything on the basis of operation, but her testy, short-tempered mood got the best of her. She muttered something along the lines of destination. The warden did not answer, so the guards took that as a signal to _ignore_ her request. This further infuriated her, but she remained silent for the remainder of the walk. To pass this time of humiliation, she fumbled over thoughts of her fall with calculations, _almost mathematical,_ as to what went wrong. She was –and she still holistically believed this –flawless, unblemished, and perfect. Her egotistical manner objected her loss at first, just nerves on edge was all. But events kept happening, actions kept rolling like a film. She kept blinking, hoping to wake from some nightmare. She never opened her eyes to a king-sized bed, never woke to a warm hum of air blowing from an open window. Rather, her confused eyes took in a blood-red sky, arms –immobile –in chains, and two figures staring down in disdain. Yes, _this_ was defeat, a story that was more hazed and fuzzy and worn with age.

The warden stopped abruptly with no warning. His massive hands fumbled with a ring of keys and unlocked the rusty door that met the outside. With a grunt, he pulled it open to reveal a dim, reddish light. Azula's eyes were not prepared for even the slightest bit of change and she cringed when it met her pupils. With identical, sarcastic sighs, the guards at her sides dragged her forward, displaying no care for her predicament. She yelped when one's grip pinched her armpit, but otherwise, she made no noise at all. Her legs met grass for the first time in ages; it was ticklish against her bare knees. Leaves blew around her harmoniously, performing perfect twirls with the wind's tender push as a guide. The air was a little chilly; it brought goose bumps on the princess' skin. To avoid the brightening of light, she held her head low, chin resting upon her breast. Her hair, matted and dirty, dangled over her eyes protectively, though each individual wisp let in ample amounts –tresses too thin to do otherwise. The trek seemed to go on and on; the scenery viewed only through peripheral vision went through motions of _repetition:_ trees bent back and forth in similar positions and rocks molded into identical forms in the earth. And it was in no way the same as she barely recalled. There were a few less flowers that sprouted and bloomed, a bit less of that luscious green coating the soil. A season change, perhaps? For most of her time in prison, she had no way of knowing the differences between night and day, nor the time –seconds, minutes –that flew by. It was not a relief to see the light blue sky of morning; it meant that sleep was a long way away. She was a night person herself, one that enjoyed the company of blindness –the inability to see a challenge that strengthened her. The group met an incline –quite a steep hill. To assist in their own strides, the guards helped Azula to her feet. Her toes, for a few moments, could not help her keep balance, but after a few steps her gait became more advanced – a great relief to her among others.

Within minutes, the hill flattened completely, a simple symbol of conclusion. The guards dropped the princess to the ground, cuffing her before she could make any attempt at liberation. The warden caught his breath in this time –he needed to lose a little weight, for his job involved a lot more sitting around than it used to –and patiently stood his ground. He understood well as to what was going on; he loved having knowledge and informants on all fronts. He was well prepared too: he had the princess placed on her knees and her arms tied behind her back. He flashed a quick glare at the girl, who was staring into the sunlight –_strange_ behavior from the usual. Azula was breathing heavily, perhaps that was a sign that she took a certain appreciation for this clean, fresh air. Her eyes closed from time to time, a gesture of _pleasure_ that nature was giving her, and _did she just smile?_ If she did, the warden found it crooked and struggled. He knew genuine kindness and bliss were difficult for her to display openly; her grin almost appeared wicked, almost like an act of mockery. But she kept at it, kept trying, kept going until finally after a period of five or ten minutes, her bared teeth had a friendly tone dripping from them. The warden snorted at this: _what was becoming of her?_ He had no care to see her recuperate; in all honesty, he liked having the Firelord's greatest threat as his very own private prisoner. Being that he was indeed a somewhat hard-hearted man, he did not mind it when the girl found herself screaming into the walls over something as little as her own shadow. He found a sort of comical, perhaps even orgasmic, amusement from it. He enjoyed the business aspect it brought as well. Indeed, yes, the taxpayers could not support him, but the Firelord supplied him with a hefty bounty to keep Azula in her place. He was greedy, of course, spending it on riches to decorate his office instead of on decent food for the prisoners. His authority made it possible; it reminded him of the _princess_ back in her prime.

A creak in the bushes alerted the warden, put him on edge. The Avatar, staff in hand, emerged from the plants. The warden gave a bow to him, devotion and sincere respect written all over his pronounced and protruding features. The young man smiled in acknowledgment; pleased to see those of a predominantly evil nature still gave him some courtesy. Though he was not _bigheaded,_ his position in the balance of the world heightened some of his yearnings. Azula, slightly _panic-stricken_ to see him, met his eyes. They were gray, almost like the death of existence. It sank in almost instantly as to what the Avatar was going to do to her. The man read her realization but gave her a fatherly smile to show that he was trying not to hurt her. This, oddly enough, seemed to work and she raised her head and pushed out her chest, awaiting his move. He walked forward and placed his thumbs where needed –on her forehead and her breasts, making the connection between brain and heart respectively. He took a deep breath and channeled his energy so that it virtually did not exist. A light drew from every opening in his body, hers as well, its purpose: to meet the heavens, the destination of all stored energy. Within seconds, his light began to consume her body. She felt it crawling, tingling upon her flesh. It annoyed her but she paid it no heed as it soon numbed her completely.

The Avatar backed himself away from Azula. She was groggy, an expected side effect. She flailed her arms listlessly, but gave up and plopped to the ground. She wanted to sleep so badly, but the bright light of dawn was so strong. It warmed her skin like a blanket. The young man touched her shoulder with a painless pat. His head stretched to her ear, his lips just inches from it.

_"You're free."_

_Freedom:_ the most unexplainable right of a human being. No law could decode its necessity, decipher its morals and values. It was unbelievably rich, full of love. It embraced her, giving her reassurance of survival. She attempted to rise, but her cuffs and sleep deprivation grounded her. The guards freed her from the binds, loyalty to the Avatar much stronger than to the warden. This was a _huge_ break in his disposition as an all-knowing man; he did not expect liberation after such suffering. Perhaps she did deserve it: she was, for the most part, _well behaved._ His mouth was agape, shock still running its course through his body.

The Avatar placed his arms around Azula and picked her up off of the ground. Her face met his chest and her eyes stared devotedly into his eyes. They captured the sunlight quite well, better than she expected, really. He cocked his head and gave her a kind smile, cuddling her closer to him. He took her to the horizon to be met by more smiles, and for once, a little love and kindness. The princess welcomed it with open arms as the Avatar's sky bison took to the morning sky.

The young man sat Azula next to him, left arm controlling the aerial beast and the other around her shoulder. She fell asleep _peacefully,_ her face against his cheek, hair blowing in the wind. He took her to the sun to get away from the _night _and leave it all behind.

………

The sun did see it all; saw more of a _surprise_ in all honesty. He questioned the punishment; he questioned its price because a taste of fear resided in his mouth.

The night _would_ shine upon the earth again, some day soon. Yes, it would be hours at least, never enough time for anyone to change. The metamorphosis that he had just witnessed, though it was beautiful and inspiring, was not something he himself would call _everlasting._ Under her skin, in the blood pumped through her heart, _lies reign._ Perhaps more than what could be seen by the naked eye. And these falsified tales live to blind the goodness, the purity, inside of her soul.

_And he hoped –prayed –that she would never fall into the cracks, to be influenced no more. Perhaps just this once, Ozai's stranglehold would let go and leave her untouched…_


End file.
